stand up straight. One of her shoes had come off during her struggle to stay alive. She went and picked up her shoe, had a coughing fit, dropped the shoe, picked it up.
I was ready for her to come at me hard. Shoe in one hand, the other hand on her neck, her chest rising and falling, she limped around in a circle like a wounded dog, sweat covering her face. Her hair came undone, fell, framed her anger. She moved hair from her eyes and scowled at me. She moved in circles, favoring the leg with the shoe, that shoe making one leg three inches longer than the other, eyes glazed, disoriented, found her purse, pulled out her Glock.
She bounced death against her leg. She caught her breath, looked around, thinking, maybe remembering that people had just seen us in a heated conversation in the lower lobby, considered her alibi, maybe even imagining how a gun’s report would echo like thunder in this hollow chamber, how the sounds might carry up level after level, maybe resound all the way to the lobby, shook her head as if she’d come to some conclusion, then stuffed her Glock back in her bag and limped away, each step backward, pushed the button on the elevator.
We stared at each other until the elevator door opened. She limped on, coughing, gagging, back bent, rubbing at the fingerprints and bruises I’d left staining her neck.
She stared at me, mouth open, that disbelief still in her eyes, like I had been the crazy one in this institution of infidelity. I expected her to get real nasty, to curse and shout out threat after threat, maybe even take a shot at me before she vanished. She looked hurt. Vulnerable.
She spoke simply, her tone political, said, “You just activated the acceleration clause.”
The elevator door closed.
My reflection faced me in the steel door, the image of madness.
My hard breathing echoed.
Sancho.
Jeva.
Sweat grew on my face, ran down my neck, stained my crisp white collar.
The wound behind my ear double-timed, throbbed to life, the beat of an African drum.
I snarled, straightened my cuff links and silk tie, did the same with my Italian suit.
Wiped down my shoes. Frowned at the new scuff marks on the heels.
Adjusted my cuff links.
Then I wiped my mouth, faced my reflection again.
I took a step. Stopped. Looked up and around.
Cameras.
Had to be security cameras down here. More than likely security wasn’t watching them, too busy eating a ham sandwich and reading the sports section of the L.A. Times, but they had tape rolling. Big Brother was always watching, if only with one electronic eye.
I got on the elevator.
Headed through the hotel, expecting security to bum rush me.
Nothing happened.
Left the hotel, took hard steps toward work, fifty-degree air was cooling my dank face.
Walked through the glass doors into the bright yellow lobby of Wolf Classic Limousine.
Lisa was up front, talking to Sid Levine, Margaret Richburg, and a few other people.
Laughing like she was the centerfold for Better Homes and Gardens.
But that laugh she had was weak and fragile. Her eyes told me she was rattled.
She had put a colorful scarf over her neck, my handprints hidden.
I walked through her scent, the stench of lies and treachery.
Wolf came into the office as I was getting the keys to the sedan.
We stood, faced each other. A wordless exchange that lasted a good five seconds.
“Good morning, Driver.”
“Wolf. Morning.”
“You look a little tired.”
“I’m cool. Just need some coffee and some Visine.”
“I have some Visine on my desk. Help yourself.”
“Yeah. Cool. Thanks.”
We shook hands like nothing bad had happened between us yesterday. Hypocrites in dark suits. We held our grips. Two warriors. Two men. Two classes. Two worlds. I looked him in his eyes and he did the same with me. He loved Lisa beyond reason. He was looking for that betrayal, wanting to see how deep that river ran. Wondering if his queen had taken a few trips back to the Motherland. The truth was there, unhidden. Getting deeper by the second. Self-preservation in full effect. In that silence it was like we were two prisoners on Lisa’s yard.
Wolf looked like a man corroding, six feet of inner angst masked with a rusty smile.
The accumulation of the hurts from this marriage and the one before, maybe many relationships before that. Men hurt. We were people. Couldn’t count the number of motherfuckers who cried in jail. Didn’t matter what size, build, or color. Robust men broke down just like the frail ones,